


If You Give a Conspiracy Theorist an Alien

by MyDarlingClementine, theboywantscoffee



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Elliott deserved better, Elliott was a good friend, Five eats a sandwich, Five has a friend, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy-centric, So is Five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDarlingClementine/pseuds/MyDarlingClementine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theboywantscoffee/pseuds/theboywantscoffee
Summary: Elliott always knew aliens were real but never anticipated one to willingly show up on his doorstep, much less in knee-high socks. And as for Five? Well, he never thought his best chance to reunite with his family would come in the form of a scrawny conspiracy theorist brandishing a butter knife.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Elliott Gussman
Comments: 62
Kudos: 217





	1. Making Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by MyDarlingClementine

Five squints his eyes and blinks in an attempt to get the words to stop meandering around the page. He needs to focus _,_ but it’s a Herculean effort. He absently swipes at his hair and rubs the back of his neck, unable to begin to process what a day this has been. Or even how _long_ this day has been. From the destruction of the Academy to yet _another_ time travel debacle - Five would have called this entire day an abject failure except for the sole fact that his family is apparently not dead. 

Or not dead _yet_. Because Five has to add _another_ apocalypse and another set of Commission goons to his mental list of things to worry about. He hadn’t been personally familiar with the Swedes before today, but they were moderately well known throughout the Commission, and his memories of their reputation for ingenuity and doggedness was currently a cold iron in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s not that Five is worried about _himself._ He’s fully confident in his ability to handle anything the Commission can throw at him. But there’s five other members of his family (six if you count Ben, but Five isn't particularly worried about the Swedes' ability to harm a ghost) currently out there, oblivious to the danger that they are in. 

The _one_ piece of good luck that Five had been able to scrape together in the hours since his arrival in 1963 currently stood in front of him in the form of a not-quite-creepy but definitely _paranoid_ man: Elliott Gussman. 

Because Elliott, who had apparently been scoping out the alley for years, has photographic evidence that the Hargreeves are alive. _All_ of them _._ He had even compiled leads on some of their current locations, which Five is currently pouring through. 

“Of course, Diego had to be a dumbass and get himself arrested practically the _minute_ he arrived,” Five mutters to himself while reading through the details of the news article. He knows in the grand scheme of things it’s really inconsequential, but it’s still annoying. Knowing where Diego is is the important part. Breaking him out of the facility will be a minor obstacle. 

Five made plans to head over to the institution later, once he’s finished pouring over Elliott’s copious stack of research related to, uh… aliens. A lot of it is irrelevant junk, of course, but Five diligently highlights for later the few promising mentions that could be related to the Hargreeves. 

If he had had the time to think about it, Five would suppose he should be grateful to Elliott.

“Uh, Five?” 

Five looks up at the noise to see Elliott wringing his hands and shuffling his feet. 

“What now?” Abstract feelings of appreciation are suddenly replaced by mild annoyance. Five doesn’t have time for interruptions; the clock is ticking. 

“Oh, well, I noticed you looking at my - “ Elliott gestures in the vague direction of the living room. “- shoes? Earlier?” He shuffles his feet again and Five cocks a head in his direction. “Well, uh, well you see I saw you looking at them and….do you want...want to have them? Do you... _need_ them, I mean?”

Huh. Five’s face twists into a sort of bemused consideration. Honestly, he had just been planning to _take_ the shoes, but Elliott offering them instead is... actually kinda nice. 

Mild shame washes over Five as he supposes he probably should have at least _considered_ asking. It’s true that he has never had the best people skills, but at one point in his life he had at least been taught _manners._

 _Now, Five, that’s not how we behave, is it?_ It doesn’t take much for Five to picture Grace’s gently delivered rebuke at his rude behavior, her face stern but her eyes ever kind. 

Elliott continues, “Because I noticed what you are wearing looks kinda like… uh, bowling shoes and uh, that’s not going to help you blend in. Especially as a… schoolboy.” He looks up and down Five’s uniform. Then, he hastily pulls the shoes from behind his back and puts them on the chair next to Five.

Five looks at the shoes then back at the man. “Thanks, Elliott.” He nods and salutes him with the cup of coffee that Elliott had topped off for him a few minutes ago. “I’ll wear them with… pride.”

Elliott beams. 

Five looks back down at his notes.

But Elliott doesn’t leave. Five can still hear his wheezing breath and shuffling feet. He rolls his eyes, puts his pen down and cocks his eyebrow at Elliott. “Is there…something else you need?”

Elliott nods with a look that’s caught halfway in between excitement and terror. “Well, uh… I noticed you don’t have a change of clothes either? Unless they are somehow… magic? Or, uh, I mean - if you don’t need anything, that’s fine. But if you do... uh, well, I have… shirts and stuff. Socks too. They might not be too big." He looks down and gestures at himself. “I’m pretty skinny. But only if you want,” he adds hastily, his arms in a placating gesture like he just remembered that it was only a few short hours ago that his houseguest had threatened to melt his brain. 

Five automatically scoffs at Elliot’s offer. It gives him a weird feeling which he can’t quite describe but is definitely a mixture of annoyance at the continued interruption and possibly... endearment? When was the last time someone had _voluntarily_ given anything to Five? Sure the Commission had taken care of his basic needs, and if Five had ever bothered to make a request for anything else they may have granted it. But he hadn’t, and that relationship had been... transactional at best. 

And before that, Five had been on his own for so long. A lifetime alone with Dolores, who for all her positive qualities (and they were numerous), was limited in her ability to interact with physical objects. 

A distant memory flashes unbidden into Five’s mind again - Grace. She was most likely the last person besides Five who had taken care of Five’s needs. He still remembers how she would lay out their uniforms every morning, sneaking into their rooms before dawn, and then again sneaking in after bedtime to whisk the clothes away and wash them. 

Five had not appreciated it at the time, but with the wisdom of age he had realized how much Grace had tailored herself to her children’s individual personalities. From a young age, Five had not only been particular about his appearance, but he had liked to do things _himself,_ and so instead of pulling at his tie or swiping at his hair when it needed straightening like she would with Diego or Klaus, Grace would give Five a little signal, and he would make the adjustments. 

Now, both decades later and decades in the past, it was kind of...nice to again have someone who gave a thought to Five’s needs. 

Hell, Five thinks, looking around at the piles of paper and the fresh coffee that Elliott wordlessly provided after he drank his way through the first pot. He’s already commandeered Elliott’s living room. He might as well raid Elliott’s closet while he’s here.

“Sure, Elliott. Thanks. That’s...very kind of you.” 

Elliott beams again. 

Five feels his lips twitch and he almost, _almost_ smiles back.


	2. Out of His Comfort Zone

Elliott Gussman is single handedly the luckiest man - nay, _person_ , in the universe.

After all, who else has an _actual real live alien_ sitting at their kitchen table right now? 

It’s been two days since the alien, who goes by the absurdly awful pseudonym of Five, showed up at his doorway and then teleported into his kitchen. Two days since the boy- uh, _alien,_ informed Elliott that he needs his help and made himself at home right away in his shop. Two days of brewing pot after pot of coffee for the creature to the point where Elliott is almost completely out - not that he minds. Hell, he’d spend his entire life savings on coffee if that’s what the ali- if that’s what _Five_ wants. 

He fucking knew it. He had told Eleanor, hadn’t he? He had told her and her stuffy pretentious parents, assured them that aliens are real, gave them all the solid proof they could never need to believe him and what did they do? They laughed at him. Mocked him. And she divorced him over it. 

Boy, if he could show them… well, he _will_ show them. When the time is right. But for now.

For now he has to help Five find his extra-terrestrial family. 

Elliott moves about the kitchen brewing yet another unrequested pot for Five. He makes it _exactly_ the same as he made it the day Five appeared at his doorstep and he notices with concern as he scoops the grinds into the filter that he’s running low on that particular blend. It’s dark outside and he doesn’t need to bother flashing a glimpse at his watch to know that it is most certainly _not_ between the hours of 9:00 AM and 10:00 AM.

No matter. As long as he doesn’t need any more after this for the rest of the night, there should be enough.

Papers are strewn over his kitchen table where Five works. Elliott acts as casually as possible while he makes the coffee, however at any chance he can get he’s peering over to see what the creature is working on. It’s still… math. Evidently alien math looks the same as human math, neither of which Elliott understands well. He wilts a bit at this. Oh, he would love to see some of his language written out on paper… would love to _hear_ it, actually.

He already knows how that request will go.

Five doesn’t pay him any mind. He’s focused on his work, his left hand scribbling furiously across the notepad before him while he rubs at his forehead with the other. Elliott is starting to suppose aliens don’t sleep - at least, he hasn’t _seen_ Five sleep. Do they get their fuel from the sun? The air? Perhaps Earth is hospitable for them due to the carbon dioxide emissions? Or do they filter out the invisible energy waves emitted from the planet and convert that into fuel for cellular metabolism?

He catches himself before he can ask. Five already seems agitated enough and his threats become quite… _creative_ the more irate he is. 

Elliott loses himself in his thoughts for a bit until he notices the coffee has finished brewing. A quick assessment of the pot leads him to hoping once more that twelve cups will be enough to get Five through the night. He grabs it and walks over towards Five, hovering beside him for a moment before reaching forward to fill his mug.

“Just made a fresh pot for yah, if you like,” he says, his eyes flitting between the dark head of hair and his drink. 

Five turns to look at the cup and up at Elliott, his face wrinkled with annoyance. The edges of it soften a touch and he mutters, “Thanks.” He immediately takes the mug much to Elliott’s excitement and downs a gulp despite how scalding hot it is.

Perhaps aliens have a substantial heat tolerance? He adds that to his list of questions for later. 

The mug falls back to the table a bit harder than necessary and Five lets out a frustrated puff of air, pausing his writing and leaning back in his seat. Both hands rub at his forehead and back into his hair, halting at his neck. He stays like this for a moment and then he takes the pen in hand again. Elliott watches him closely, but he doesn’t continue writing. 

A beat passes.

“Anything I can uh, help you with?” Elliott offers perhaps a bit too eagerly, looking a bit squirrely as he moves to rest the coffee pot back on the burner.

Five’s shoulders rise and fall though Elliott doesn’t hear a sigh this time. He doesn’t even look at him when he answers, “Just having a hard time focusing. The coffee isn’t really cutting it.”

Elliot nearly jumps out of his loafers with how eager he is to appease him. “Do you want something to eat? I got some leftover tuna casserole in the fridge or some jello salad or oh, I also got some Spam I could fry up with-.”

Five cuts him off by spinning about in his seat and looking up at him, his expression flickering between disgust and impatience. “No offense, but I’m not looking to spend my night hanging over the toilet. Got anything a bit less sixties?”

Elliott isn’t quite sure what _that_ means but he does a quick mental run down of his sparse kitchen. There are some boxes of dried pasta and nothing to top it with. Cereal, but he’s all out of milk. And while Five may look like a kid, he certainly doesn’t act like one and Elliott doesn’t expect he’ll react too kindly to being offered a glass of Ovaltine.

“... fruit cocktail?”

Five makes a face and turns back to his papers. “You know what - nevermind,” he says, throwing his hands up and signaling the end of the conversation. He snatches the pen off the table and resumes his work - or rather, makes a pretty good show of pretending to do so if he isn’t. 

Elliott sucks his teeth silently, mouthing the word _shit_ to himself. He _can’t_ let Five down. Five chose him to help, _knew_ that he would be the one to be of most use on this god forsaken planet of non-believers. He _has_ to help him find his family, has to make sure he has what he needs to complete his mission. 

Even if that need is food in the form of anything other than gelatin, canned fish, or overly salted processed meats.

He glances at his watch. It’s 8:23 pm. 

He chews his lip, looks at the analog clock hanging on the opposite wall.

8:23 pm.

Elliott only goes out from 9:00 am to 10:00 am, Monday through Friday. He doesn’t go out at 8:23 pm on any night, _ever_.

And he has his reasons. 

But… but Five _needs_ him. 

Elliott leans a hand on the counter next to him, tapping his fingers against the edge of it in agitation. His eyes flit again between the clock, Five, and then out the window.

There’s a corner store around the block. A three minute walk, max.

And the pigeons should _not_ be out at this hour. It’s late enough that they should be nestled deep in the nest they’ve constructed in the sign overhanging the shop. He’s certain they’re involved in government related espionage and only come out to spy on American citizens during the day and then hide away at night to refuel. 

Why else do birds perch on electrical wires if not for recharging?

Elliott looks at Five one more time.

He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. 

_You gotta do it for him, Elliott. You’re the chosen one. You can’t let him down._

With that he grabs his keys, lets out a strained, “Be back in a minute,” and heads out.

\---

Elliott survives the late night trip to the corner store. By the time he makes it back to his shop his hands are clammy and the rest of his body is slick with sweat. One may not say he _ran_ there and back, however he certainly did not take his time. 

“I’m back,” he announces once he’s through the front door to the apartment. Immediately his nerves settle just by being back in his own space. Five is seated and poured over his work in the same spot Elliot left him and doesn’t answer. 

“I got some more coffee,” Elliott declares, setting the bag on the counter and uncrumpling the top to unpack it. “And uh, some other stuff to eat. Eggs, bread, milk for cereal, some more jello, marshmallows for some old hot cocoa I have, I guess, if you want-.”

“Do you have peanut butter?” Five interrupts without turning to address Elliott. Evidently he is listening. 

“I think, yeah, I mean there isn’t much left but-.”

Elliott cuts himself off, watching in incredulity as Five vanishes from his spot seated at the table and appears standing next to him less than a second later. He gives Elliott a sideways look and begins rifling through the bag to pull out the bread and marshmallows.

“I’ll take the peanut butter,” he states, opening the bag of bread and pulling out two slices.

“Y-yeah, sure.” Elliott rummages through the cabinet below them and pulls out the jar. Five has already torn open the bag of marshmallows and is sprinkling them on one slice of bread. His eyes flick towards the jar and back to his sandwich, adjusting a few puffy white blobs so that the layer is uniform.

“Got a knife?”

Elliott grabs one from a drawer and hands it to him wordlessly. 

Five smears a glob of creamy peanut butter over the other piece of bread, spreading it evenly to all sides with careful consideration. Elliott watches with fascination as he does so, wondering where and when he would have had time to taste a fluffernutter sandwich before, unless maybe it was during recon of the planet? But really, such a sandwich is more of a New England thing, not a Dallas thing, and if he were trying to properly disguise himself in this location he’d be much wiser to reach for-.

His thoughts are cut off by a soft _‘mmm’_ from beside him. Five bobs his head a few times as he chews, clearly content with his meal. 

“Good?” Elliott asks, watching him with apprehension riddled all over his face.

His initial response is a hum of agreement before Five finishes chewing and swallows the mouthful. “Thanks for going out.” He walks back over and seats himself at the table once more. He flashes Elliott a quick raise of his eyebrows with a slight curl of his lips. “I owe you one.”

Elliott’s chest feels like it’s going to burst.

Not only are aliens real but he is actually _helping_ one.

Take _that_ , Eleanor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was authored by theboywantscoffee.


	3. To Die at the Wrong Time

_\--- 88 minutes ---  
_

Five is practically _choking_ on his rage as he blinks into Elliott’s TV store. 

He curses the Handler's name, and the name of every member of the Commission Board (now deceased).

Most of all, he curses his _own_ name for being such a fool. 

She had played him like a fiddle. 

And the irony was that he has no _time_ for this. Five never has any _time._ He is always one step behind, whereas _she_ has literally all the time in the world. 

Still, his brain was already working, formulating a plan-

_Hide the briefcase._

_Get cleaned up._

_Wrangle his siblings…somehow._

There are noises upstairs, muffled voices that sound like they belonged to Luther and Diego. Five gives a silent thank you for small favors - two less siblings to track down in this _impossible_ deadline. 

He had just adjusted the bare and completely _inadequate_ sketch of a strategy that he's working on to account for his brothers when he spots the blood on the floor.

It's a… _lot_ of blood. Something's written in it.

Five cranes his neck to see, not allowing himself time to actually stop moving up the stairs.

_Öga för öga._

An eye for an eye. In _Swedish._

 _Oh shit_. 

That wasn’t good. Not good at all. 

Five does _not_ have time for this. 

\--- _87 minutes ---  
_

A renewed pang of panic followed by a hit of cold fear lodges itself in Five’s throat. He races up the stairs, following the trail of dripping blood. 

There's a sheet draped over a chair.

Elliott’s chair.

He can’t see what's underneath the sheet. But there’s only so many possibilities.

_Were any of his siblings unaccounted for?  
_

Who else would the Swedes be targeting?

Then suddenly, he knows. Knows whose body is creating a lumpy form under the carefully draped sheet.

Five puts the briefcase down slowly.

Time itself slows as he walks over to the chair.

The steps seem endless, even though there is only three of them.

He doesn’t want to get there. Five futilely wishes for a distraction. _A_ _nything._

Anything to keep him from having to pull back the sheet.

Because once he does, it'll be real.

_\---_ _86 minutes ---  
_

Time resumes its march as Five approaches the chair.

He pulls back the sheet.

Elliott.

_Damn._

Horror rises up in Five’s throat at Elliott's broken face.

He wants to puke. Emotions claw at him, rage fighting grief and both tinged with desperation. He still feels _raw,_ ragged from the slaughter only an hour ago, and his control is weak. 

Five desperately wants to be _done_ with killing.

Apparently killing does not yet want to be done with _Five_. 

Elliott didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve the pain that Five had brought to him. 

If only he had _time,_ Five would be raging. Raging at the _monsters_ who took the life from his friend. Another casualty of the fucking _Commission_. 

Slaughtering the Board hadn’t halted their cruelty. 

Five recalls the irony of the many lives he had ended in the name of the Commission. He had never taken the time to wonder about their lives. Their pasts. Their families.

Unlike Elliott's...desecration, Five's work was clean, precise. Not that Five had any pretenses that a clean death was any less _devastating_ to their family and friends. Still, it was just part of the job.

But this one, this kill. This one was _messy._ This one was _personal_. 

This one was his _friend._

_I’m sorry, Elliott._

\--- _85 minutes ---  
_

Five had no _time_. No time for the cocktail of rage and fear and grief that he can taste in his throat.

He swallows it down.

 _Nothing_ matters except saving his family.

Not even Elliott. 

_I’m sorry._

Five gently recovers his friend with the sheet, and grabs the briefcase.

He's back on mission.

_Hide the briefcase._

_Get cleaned up._

_Wrangle his siblings._

He hears his siblings nattering some nonsense. Bothering someone named…Olga on the telephone?

Morons. Absolute fucking _morons._

“Hey,” Five calls out.

Diego and Luther turn to look at him. He's already halfway out of his blazer. “It’s _Öga för öga_ , idiots.”

Luther’s mouth gapes open. Diego mutters something pleasant and hangs up the phone. 

He _really_ doesn’t have time for this. 

\--- _84 minutes..._

  
  



	4. Making Amends

The plot of earth isn’t difficult to find. With some guidance from the groundskeeper and a loosely detailed map, Five locates the spot in less than ten minutes. There is nothing overwhelming or breathtaking about the gravestone’s size or appearance; it’s a simple rectangle with a rounded out top dremeled from granite. Unlike many slabs around it, it isn’t laden with flowers or flags or any other tokens of love for the person beneath it. The grass around it is plush, barren, and there isn’t a sign of anything having been settled about it for some time.

Five comes to a stop before the front of the stone. He scans the front of it, lips pressed into a thin line.

_Elliott Samual Gussman_

_March 1st, 1918 - November 21st, 1963_

_Gone but never forgotten._

“Evidence to the contrary,” he mutters quietly with a shake of his head. He bends forward and lays the bouquet of vibrant zinnias before the stone and then steps back, tucking his hands into his pockets. A slight breeze picks up and it provides a pleasant amount of reprieve from the stagnant heat of the late spring Dallas day. Trees rustle overhead with the wind and grackles croak in the distance.

Diego had filled in the gaps for Five as to what transpired shortly after Elliott’s death. Evidently Diego picked a pretty shitty location to attempt to bury him, Lila did a pretty shitty job informing the body disposal division at the Commission of his remains, and it was only a week or so after his disappearance that the Dallas police department located him discarded in a wheelbarrow near a water tower just outside of the city. Confirmation of his identification quickly dispelled the rumors from his colleagues of alien abduction and Elliott was soon buried by his ex-wife and a few lingering conspiracy theorist friends.

That was nearly 57 years ago. From the looks of it, no one has paid much mind to the grave or body beneath it since. Five swallows the lump in his throat and addresses the headstone.

“Hey, Elliott.”

A familiar dull ache swells in his chest. He ignores it. 

“It’s been a while - well, for you anyway. I visited the shop earlier today,” he says conversationally, tilting his gaze up to watch the leaves flit above him. “It’s been converted to a cafe, though I’m sorry to say they can’t brew a decent cup worth shit. Your blend would have put them to shame.”

Five read both the obituary and autopsy report even though he didn’t need to. His memory can still paint the very vivid image of Elliott’s body from when he discovered him. He recognized the torture tactics that lead up to his death, so unoriginal and yet so clearly and classically Commission form. Dental work is the usual go to for extracting information from a target as it leads to caving bravado rather quickly. He hates to think how long it may have gone on for before the Swedes finally disposed of him permanently. 

With how loyal Elliott was, he can only assume it was quite some time.

Shame and regret coil tighter in his stomach. It’s a feeling that hasn’t left Five alone for a single day, not since he discovered Elliott’s disfigured corpse laid out in the dental chair. His death had been premature, drawn out, and entirely avoidable. All Five had to do was _be there_ and he could have stopped them, could have unleashed on the Swedes whatever they had planned for Elliott ten fold. Instead he was off completing a gruesome task of his own that inevitably amounted to _nothing_. 

“Well, you’d be thrilled to find out aliens are real,” he continues, his voice pinched with forced pleasantries. He attempts something akin to a grin, but it’s too tight, too strained. “Turns out the old man was one himself - not a huge surprise there though. I bet you’d have loved to tell some people ‘I told you’ so, huh? I would have told the old ex for you, but she died in ‘03. Cancer.” 

It occurs to Five that he’s stalling. Stalling before a chunk of rock, no less. Even if it is easier talking to an inanimate object over a real person (he has years of experience to thank for that), it still doesn’t make coming to terms with his own failures any less difficult. His eyes drop to the headstone once more, reading the inscribed letters over and over. _Gone but never forgotten_. It’s a poor choice of words for a man who’s absence was noticed by so few people, Five reflects sourly.

He lets out a tired sigh, the burden of loss and pain inadvertently caused by him and his family weighing heavily on him. Elliott was a good man. Peculiar, fanatical, and definitely a bit intrusive with his interrogations of Five and his presumed alien ways, but he was consistently helpful and kind. He was critical in Five’s attempts to locate his siblings and once he did, Elliott was nothing other than hospitable to them. He took them in without question, fed them, housed them, and even assisted in their mission to find out more about their father. And in the end his services were rewarded with torture and death.

Five swallows the guilt building in his throat. “You were a good friend, Elliott,” he finally manages to get out, his voice thick with sincerity. “You helped me find my family again and get us back home to 2019 where we belong. I’ll never be able to repay that debt to you.”

He tried to, anyway. Tried to figure out a way to go back and fix things in a way that would have left the timeline still intact and Elliott alive. But time travel is tricky, maintaining linear continuity while dabbling with real lives is damn near impossible, and Five couldn’t risk disappearing and getting stuck again for the sake of Elliott. It was a selfish decision and yet one he would make a thousand times over. He can’t ever jeopardize finally being back with his family. Not after all the suffering he has gone through to reach this point. 

That still doesn’t stop him from feeling culpable.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m sorry you got wrapped up in my own shit and all that did was lead two assassins to your door.” He exhales with exasperation and a hand reaches up to scrub at the back of his neck, unpleasant memories flickering in his mind. Dolores. The tow truck driver. His family when he first arrived back in 2019. He grimaces. “As it turns out, I’m _really_ good at doing that.” 

There’s a beat of silence as the wind dies down and the trees go still. It annoys Five, like the entire earth is waiting with bated breath to see what else he has to say. He stands there reading the few words etched into the granite over and over again. _Gone but never forgotten_. He breathes through his nose and his fingers fidget until enough time passes that he finds control within himself to stop. It’s only when the breeze resumes again that he feels the tenseness lessen in his shoulders and he’s able to bring himself to unclench his jaw. 

Even with the constant stress of existing in the 1960’s and trying to figure out how to stop yet _another_ apocalypse, Five had found moments of pleasure in the few evenings and mornings shared in Elliott’s shop. He can’t recall the last time he genuinely enjoyed the presence of someone else outside of his family and he had even looked _forward_ to it in a way. For believing him to be an all powerful alien who could kill him at any moment, Elliott still treated Five with nothing other than benevolence. He offered him his dress shoes when he noticed Five eying them. He brewed him coffee without needing to be asked and always made sure it was the blend he liked. He made a point to go to the grocery store _outside_ of the hours of 9:00 AM to 10:00 AM, Monday through Friday, just to get something a bit less gelatinous for Five to snack on when he commented on how his head ached one late night and how coffee wasn’t cutting it. Five found that those moments had been some of the most enjoyable he had experienced since returning from the apocalypse at the time. 

His eyes flit over the stone once, twice, three times over, and his furrowed brow smooths out with each reading, a small and rather belated revelation hitting him. He feels the edges of his face soften as he scrutinizes the words once more and there’s a small sound of amusement that escapes his lips before a quiet sigh.

Dolores always said he was good at missing something right in front of him. 

“Thank you, Elliott. For everything you did for me and for my family. I’ll never forget you.”

It really is a fitting epitaph.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find both [theboywantscoffee](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/theboywantscoffee) and [MyDarlingClementine](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/clementineofmine) on Tumblr. Come talk to us!


End file.
